“Oh, Aisling. Why did you allow yourself to fall in love with him?” she whispered to herself, drying her eyes with her sleeve.
The celebration continued on, the revelry just beginning, but none of it brought any joy to Aisling’s heart. After a small respite, she managed to pull herself together and slip back home.
* * *
“Look!” Deiric exclaimed, bursting into the dining room and flapping a piece of paper around. “An art competition is to be held at noon tomorrow, and anyone in Arbeine may enter!”
Aisling, still heart-sore over the discovery she’d made the night before, barely paid attention.
Her cousin continued, holding the paper up, his eyes darting back and forth as he read. “And any art piece is acceptable, but it must be created in the town square within three hours of the start of the contest! The prize,” Deiric lowered the page, his eyes growing wide, “is entry into the new art academy, full tuition paid.”
“Anyone can enter?” Deaghan drawled, lifting his attention from his breakfast. His eyes landed on his older son, before roving toward Aisling and turning to ice. “Surely, only the sons of the most prestigious families are eligible.”
“Then, we have nothing to worry about,” Greagoire replied. “We are sons of an honored house, and we are also the best artists in Arbeine.”
He gave his brother an arrogant grin, and Deiric returned it. They didn’t notice, however, the cruel look their father was giving Aisling.
Aisling tried to ignore it as well. She was not stupid. Deaghan would deny it until Eile ceased to exist, but if not for Aisling’s rare talent, his sculptures, and those of his sons, would be nothing short of ordinary. And now, here was this contest, open to everybody. If she took part and won, his secret would be out and not only would he become a laughing stock, but his entire credibility would be shattered.
“Aisling!” Marta hissed in her direction as the two of them retired to the kitchen. “Did you hear that? A competition for a scholarship! Oh, you are such a fine artist. You will win for sure! Then you will be free of your uncle and this place!”
Aisling only smiled before wishing Marta a goodnight. She had been thinking the same thing. But on the way to her attic room, Aisling was stopped on the landing by her uncle. He stood like a looming bear, his arms crossed, his face dark with menace. She could tell he had been drinking, and she braced herself for his ire. He had never struck her, but the words he often flung her way cut deeper than any blade ever could.
“Don’t you dare to even think of entering that competition, Smudge,” he growled, his words slightly slurred, his voice louder than necessary. “I have worked too hard for too many years to see some worthless chit surpass my own sons. If I see you in the square tomorrow, I will cast you from this house and tell all who will listen that you are a lying, deceitful wretch. Do you understand me?”
Aisling’s heart pounded in time with the sudden ache in her head. She could not believe the lies pouring from her uncle’s mouth, yet, she was not surprised by them. She thought of Kiernan then, of how he gazed upon her with such adoration. Of the portrait painted in petals and leaves ...
Would you still see me in such a way if you knew the truth? she wondered miserably. Or, would you be horrified to know I am nothing more than a slave to my uncle and his sons?
Letting her heartache pour forth, Aisling nodded as a single tear streaked down her cheek, cutting a path through the coal dust stuck there.
“Good,” Deaghan snapped. “Tomorrow, while we are at the competition, you can finish up with the statues in the parlor.”
Aisling didn’t move from her spot until she heard the door to her uncle’s room slam shut. When her nerves had settled somewhat, she continued up the stairs to her small quarters. It was a very long while before she drifted off to sleep, for she had no intention of obeying her uncle’s command, no matter how lost to despair she might be.
* * *
The evening was warm and clear, firebugs painting the dark canvas of the sky with their multi-colored lights. Kiernan should be at peace on such a night, but he was restless. This section of the Weald was calm and serene, but his heart was not. He could not stop thinking about the young Faelorehn woman he’d met only a few weeks ago. Aisling, the beautiful girl with light in her hazel eyes and brilliance in her soul. He had felt it. In her glamour, in the amazing sculptures and art pieces she had created in her little hidden alcove. The perfect candidate for his father’s offered scholarship, and perhaps, even good enough to be renowned throughout Eile one day.
Kiernan had been tempted so many times to tell her who he truly was, but he had wanted to get to know her without the title of the son of the god of the Wild hovering between them. He had planned to finally tell her at the festival, but she had not shown up, though he looked for her throughout the night. Every time a tedious, self-absorbed young daughter of some local prominent family threw herself at him, he imagined it was Aisling just to get through the dance, the conversation, the evening. But never was one of those young women the only young woman he wanted to see.
Kiernan tilted his head to the night once again, letting his glamour melt away so his antlers reappeared. Tomorrow was the competition for the art scholarship, and he had to have his wits about him. He hoped, with all his heart, that she would be there. And, he prayed to the spirits of Eile that she still looked upon him with joy and brightness when she discovered who he really was.
* * *
The next morning, Aisling watched as her uncle and cousins set off for town. Their arguing voices carried out onto the front drive but soon disappeared as the carriage whisked them away.
Aisling released a heavy breath and turned to find Marta, Bardan and Elrie gaping at her.
“You are just going to let them go without you?” Marta breathed, her tone laced with disappointed shock.
Aisling stiffened her spine. “No,” she said, her voice stronger than her constitution. “But, Uncle threatened to turn me out of the house if I did.”
“He wouldn’t!” little Elrie piped.
Aisling eyed her and the groundskeeper standing beside her, their morose expressions mirroring her mood. Yes. He would throw her into the streets and say all the awful things he promised to say last night.
Aisling sighed. “That is not the whole of it, though.”
Marta pursed her lips. “Tell us,” was all she said.
“It’s a long story,” Aisling muttered, pushing past them toward the kitchen.
They followed.
“Well, his Haughtiness and his horrid sons are gone for now. Tell us your story, and then, we’ll help you with the art competition.”
Aisling blinked up at her friends, then took a deep breath, let it out and said, “You won’t believe me, but if you insist ...”
And then, she told them everything, starting from that day two weeks ago when Kiernan first stepped into her life.
* * *
“Are you sure about this?” Aisling breathed from beneath the hood of Marta’s pale blue cloak.
The pair of them stood in the alleyway Aisling had hidden in only two nights before during the festival.
“Yes!” her friend growled. “You are the finest artist in town, and you deserve this scholarship more than anyone else, especially those two spoiled toadstools! Orphan, you may be. Poor, you may be, but you have more creative talent in one fraction of your soul than those three will produce in their entire immortal lifetimes. And if that prince cannot see what I see in you, then he is not worthy of your love.”
“I am a servant, Marta! An unpaid servant,” she cried. “I might as well be a slave! Surely, Kiernan, or his Tuatha De father, could never justify a match with someone like me, no matter how well we get along.”
Marta shook her head and placed a cool palm to the young woman’s cheek. “Look into your heart, Dearest. Do you love him?”
A hot tear slid from Aisling’s eye. She nodded, her lips trembling.
“Then do not give
up before the fight is won or lost. If he loves you, he will not care where you come from.”
With one more hug for reassurance, Aisling pulled away from her dear friend and stepped out of the alleyway. Before her, the town square waited, all the people of Arbeine gathered to watch the art competition. Aisling pulled the hood lower over her face and pushed her way through the people toward the judges’ table.
“I-I’d like to enter the competition,” she managed.
“Very well,” a tall Faelorehn man drawled. “We will give you a number. Only the winner will be required to supply a name and address.”
She nodded, taking the colored card they assigned her, then followed one of the young volunteers to her spot.
“What material would you like to work with?” the boy asked.
“Stone,” she said.
His eyes grew wide.
“I don’t think we have stone,” he replied.
Aisling’s heart sank, but then, she spotted the large square column in the center of the circle of artists.
“How about the old sign post?” she asked, brushing her fingers against the rough limestone column. A welcoming hum thrummed up her arm, her glamour eager to get to work. Oh yes, this would be perfect.
The boy darted away to ask the judges, then quickly returned to inform her she would be permitted to work with the stone pillar. Aisling drew in a deep breath and focused on the image she held in her mind.
At the judges’ table, a man raised his arm. “The challenge, my friends, is to create something to dazzle and amaze us. With the material you have in front of you, create the most beautiful thing you can imagine. The prince of the Weald himself has volunteered to help with the final round of judging.”
He turned and gestured toward a man Aisling hadn’t noticed before standing in the shade of a great tree. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw his face. Kiernan, not an ordinary Faelorehn man with the skill of a great artist, but the son of the god of the Wild, his antlers on full display. He must have used his glamour to hide them from her all this time. Aisling tugged the hood of her cloak further over her face.
“Are the artists ready?” the judge asked.
Aisling turned her attention to the block of gray limestone standing before her, a solid challenge she was determined to defeat. She set her jaw, her eyes narrowed, her glamour brewing and ready to do her bidding. It might not be able to smite dangerous threats or heal grave wounds, but her magic could carve the most precise detail and never failed to capture what she envisioned in her mind. She could only hope the vision was strong enough. Beautiful enough. Real enough.
When everyone assembled gave their ascent, the judge bellowed, “May the best work of art win!”
He lifted a metal rod and rapped it once against a large bell. Before the clang faded entirely away, the circle of artists got to work. Painters rushed to mix their pigments, potters spun their wheels, sketchers dragged pencils and charcoal sticks against their paper.
Aisling pushed her glamour outward, letting it extend as a thin filament of pure, precise power, and began to carve. Pinned to the inside of her cloak was the sketch she had made of Kiernan, early on in their acquaintance when she had been bold enough to ask if he might let her draw him. She started with that image, using it to guide her work.
As the minutes passed, Aisling became aware only of her task. She carefully shaved away stone, polished blemishes and smoothed out rough patches. The hard column of rock before her slowly disappeared as she released the image that, in her mind at least, embodied something of great beauty. In the angles and edges, she captured Kiernan’s fierce spirit, his laughing eyes, his intense presence. She even included those antlers he had felt necessary to hide from her.
Aisling had become so lost in her focus, she barely heard the bell announcing the end of their three hours. She drew her hands away from the sculpture, her pale rose-tinted glamour tapering down the final sharp points of the antlers. Aisling gazed at her finished work in wonder. It was the most beautiful piece of art she had ever created.
The crowd began to murmur as the judges stepped down from their table.
“Gods and goddesses of Eile! Look at that exquisite work!” someone breathed nearby.
“Why, it is a rendition of the prince himself!” another added.
Soon, the voices grew louder and closer. Aisling tore her attention away from her statue and blinked around her. The onlookers were pressing forward, their fingers outstretched as if to touch her masterpiece.
“Who is this unknown artist?” a familiar voice demanded. “I suspect something more than glamour is at play here! Perhaps dark magic!”
Aisling went white. Uncle Deaghan. She couldn’t stay. She had to flee. If she was proclaimed the winner, she would have to give her name and address. And then, everyone would know who she was. She had to get away before her identity was revealed.
Aisling peeked from beneath her hood and found Kiernan watching her carefully from the top of the steps above the town square. He could not possibly see her face from such a distance, but his gaze heated her nonetheless.
A small gap in the crowd opened up as the townsfolk clamored to get a better look at her statue. Without another thought, Aisling bolted, cutting through the gap and darting toward one of the town’s many side paths.
“Wait!” the head judge cried. “Do you not want to hear the results?”
Too late. Aisling was running full-out, darting between buildings and behind hedgerows as she made her way back to the edge of town. She could hear a few of the more eager onlookers at her heels, but she knew how to sneak around Arbeine, and soon, she was free. Only when she reached the edge of the woods did she stop long enough to catch her breath.
“Perhaps I fell short of winning my freedom today,” she whispered to herself, “but, at least now, it might be harder for Uncle to pass my work off as his own.”
With that somewhat reassuring thought, Aisling closed her eyes and absorbed the warmth of the sunlight streaming down through the leaves above.
* * *
It took Kiernan a good five minutes to make his way to the center of the square. The exuberant townsfolk, who had just days before thrown themselves at his feet as if he were Cernunnos himself, were rapt with wonder over the sculpture the mysterious artist had created. When he finally did move in close enough, he understood why they were so astonished. Kiernan was well aware of his fae beauty, but he had never dwelt upon it. The way the young women ogled him had never gone to his head, but this creature carved from stone could not be how he truly appeared to others, could it? There was no doubt it was him. Small as it was, the face matched his, as did the antlers protruding from the statue’s head. But, there was something so personal about it. As if the artist had met him before ...
“My lord!” one of the judges cried out. “This was left behind by the creator. Fell right from the depths of his cloak.”
The Faelorehn man held out a piece of thick parchment, and Kiernan took it. Instant recognition punched him in the gut, and a smile touched his lips.
So, you were here after all, he thought warmly, his fingers running affectionately down the sketch, so similar to the statue beside him. But why did you hide yourself beneath a cloak?
Kiernan shook his head and tucked the drawing away, safe beneath his tunic and pressed against his heart. Then, he lifted his hands in a placating manner.
The crowd grew quiet, curious to see what the son of Cernunnos had to say, but no one expected the question he asked next.
“Can any of you tell me where a young woman by the name of Aisling lives?”
* * *
Aisling spent a long time skirting the edge of the woods, not quite ready to go home and not eager to head deeper into the forest to find solace in her alcove. She’d be heading there soon enough. Despite her efforts at hiding her identity in the town square, she had a terrible feeling her uncle or her cousins had recognized her workmanship. But she could not put off the inevitable forever.
About an hour before sundown she snuck quietly back into the manor house. Unfortunately, her uncle and cousins were waiting for her.
“How dare you defy me!” Deaghan bellowed.
Fear shot through Aisling’s heart, but she stood her ground.
“Did you hear me, soot girl?!”
He grabbed her roughly by the hair and marched her through the kitchen. Marta and Bardan leapt up, shock registering on their faces.
Deaghan barely noticed them as Deiric and Greagoire held them back, their glamour far more powerful than that of her two Lorehnin friends. Elrie managed to dart around them, but Deiric threw out a leg and tripped her. The young girl crashed to the ground and slammed into the wall.
“Elrie!” Marta screeched.
“Curse you, Uncle!” Aisling managed through her tears, as she pulled at Deaghan’s hand, trying to land her own kick. “How could you treat us all so callously?”
Deaghan threw open the door and shoved Aisling out. She hit the earth and tumbled twice before coming to a stop. Her scalp burned, and she was sure her shoulder would bruise, but at least she was out of her horrid uncle’s clutches.
“You are nothing but trash!” he spat. “And to think, I took you in under my roof, and this is how you repay me? By attempting to steal what rightfully belongs to one of my own sons? That scholarship will go to either Greagoire or Deiric, not some bastard girl with no training or refinement! You are no longer allowed under my roof. If you come sniveling back here, I will let my sons finish you off!”
With that, he slammed the door. Aisling sat on the lawn for several long moments, waiting for the shock to wear off. She had on only the clothes she’d worn into town, but at least she had Marta’s cloak. It wasn’t much, but it would keep her warm, at least warm enough, to survive her first night in the forest.
Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales Page 25